


Su Pequeño Asesino

by Splatx



Series: Evan, also known as "This is a Bad Idea(TM) [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Flaco totally cares, Flaco worries, One-Shots, Online Character is the Main Character, even if he denies it, what is tagging?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: Horley had only asked him to help her once.But she came back again, and again, and again, and he couldn't turn her away.She was his little killer, after all.
Series: Evan, also known as "This is a Bad Idea(TM) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876702
Kudos: 9





	1. The First Meeting

Someone was in his cabin.

Flaco paused, raising an eyebrow as he looked at the black Saddler hitched to the tree that cast a shadow on his cabin. Surely it hadn’t taken him long enough to piss for someone to ride passed him, across the lake, hitch their horse _and_ go inside?

_Damn_ , he had to admit that that was rather impressive. And… disturbing. What if that had been a bear? The damn bears around his cabin _loved_ to watch him shit and piss, but he always heard them and scared them off. Was he going deaf in his old age?

Not many people dared to come up to The Grizzlies, and he couldn’t blame them. It was insufferably cold, the weather temperamental and liable to change in minutes. It felt as though he couldn’t go a month without finding some dumb bastard who had tried his luck and froze to death. There was a homestead a few miles up, a couple who had struck out on their own. They were fools, he thought, but a year in and they were still alive. So, bounty hunter? Or lost traveler? A friend of the couple that had taken a wrong turn? Or just a fool hunter?

Even if it were just some friend of the couple, one could never be too careful - especially one in his line of work. (Well, one who _used to be_ in his line of work, at least.) So he finished buttoning his pants and drew his gun, flicking off the safety, giving the horse its space as he approached the door. He didn’t fancy getting horse-bit for being stupid, only a fool would dare get close to a strange horse; though it looked apathetic, head low to the snow and eyes half-lidded, he had a scar on his ass that could attest to how quickly a ‘placid’ horse could turn mean.

  
  


He doubled checked that the safety was off on his gun - just a heartbeat of hesitation, the time it took to flick it off, could mean life or death if it were a thief or bounty hunter or some similar person - before shoving the door open with a grunt. The person inside spun to face him, but he was just that bit quicker, and they stilled the moment they saw the barrel of his gun, gloved hands coming up in an obvious show of surrender.

“What you want?” he growled, taking them in. Wild black hair, wolf’s green eyes with a glint to them that spoke of a life of hard living and a lean build that betrayed the same. “You just standing there, looking pretty.” She shifted her weight, curled and twitched her fingers, clearly wanted to reach for her gun but wasn’t nearly foolish enough to do so, “You gonna introduce yourself?” when she hesitated, he barked sharply, “EH‽” The woman flinched, and he swallowed a grin.

_‘Still got it!’_

Her throat clicked on a gulp, and she finally offered, if something given at gunpoint could truly be called an offering, “Evan,” her voice little more than the rasp of a dull knife over cobblestone, so low he had to strain to hear and he almost barked _‘louder!’_ but feared she might drop dead of a heart-attack. He found no threat in her, and so he lowered his gun but kept it at the ready - you never knew if she was only playing at being harmless - and turned, walking towards his chair. She waited for a long moment, eyes wide and wild as she stared at his back, before slowly lowering her hands, though she was careful to keep her hands away from her gun, not wanting to give him a reason to think her a threat.

He recognized the name—Horley had sent him a letter, asking him to help out any of the folk they’d busted out of prison if he happened upon them. (He owed Horley a favor, long story.) "You're one of those _cabrones_ , got bust out of prison, come to Flaco looking for work!" Flaco smirked, already knowing _exactly_ what he’d send her out to do. "Okay," he had no complaints, one didn't get to see a pretty woman often up in these mountains, "But can I trust you?"

No. No he could not. Never would, most likely, no matter what. The life of a gunslinger is not a life of trust.

As she tilted her head, he could practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes, trying to figure out how to convince him that he could trust her - at least, trust her enough to give her work. She knew better than to yip “You can trust me!”, those were the sort of people that you should run away from _very_ fast, but there really wasn’t anything she _could_ say that wouldn’t come off as suspicious.

"How do I know you're not a…" Flaco trailed off, looking around as though he were trying to find the word, “how do you say,” and purred, “una rata?”

  
  


Quick as a whip, showing _exactly_ how he had managed to live so long in a profession where few lived past thirty, he fired rapidly at her feet, laughing as she danced in a frantic attempt not to be shot - though he was careful not to actually hit her, only to have a bit of fun, which could be hard to find when he was all on his lonesome up in the mountains. He _did_ , after all, need her in working shape, and a shot-through foot would put a quick end to the work she could do for him.

She glowered at him once he stopped, flipping the safety back on and holstering his gun, and he grinned back, deciding to offer some advice, once outlaw to another, “Stay on your toes, eh. I made you jump.” if she didn’t learn to keep her guard up, she’d be dead before the week was out.

  
  


Flaco felt like he’d had his fun, and didn’t want to push his luck, "You have people vouching for you," she looked startled, and he wondered if Horley had told her anything, or if she’d just been thrown out into the world without so much as a by-your-leave (which would, admittedly, explain a lot), “So I'll give you a chance."

This would be a good chance to get rid of those bounty hunters, after all, and to get that favor off of his back. This was his lucky day, he supposed—he hated owing favors, and now he wouldn’t have one hanging over his head anymore. Two birds, one stone and all that. "You find these people been causing me trouble 'round Lake Isabella, maybe we get on okay." If _she_ killed _them_ , then he had found a valuable asset. If _they_ killed _her,_ then he’d weeded out a weak gunslinger who’d only cause others trouble.


	2. The Emerald Coat

Evan was never gone for so long.

Flaco scowled, skimming his knife along the block of wood.

He was only worried because she was a good employee, of course. Not for any other reason. Only because she was very loyal, jumping as high as she could when he said jump instead of asking ‘how high’, bolting out the second he gave her the information she needed, coming up every week or so to sniff around for work.

Of course he was worried! She was his best _asesina_ , would go out and kill entire gangs for him! No other reason…

And she’d been gone for over two months, where she’d never gone two weeks between visits before. Even if he hadn’t any work for her, she’d come up and he’d send her hunting for a bear or something. A bear that ‘wouldn’t stop watching him’ (it was a load, of course, except for the first. How many bears watch a man shit?) So of course he worried for his best employee.

And no, he is _not_ being overly defensive. He’s just worried for his _pequeña asesina_ , she’d be impossible to replace! Who else would come up into the freezing, snowy, goddamned Grizzlies to visit a washed up old outlaw?

A too-big chunk of wood hit the ground, rendering his carving block useless.

  
  


Three months, and he was sure she was dead.

He’d half a mind to go down and see if he could find mention of her in the newspapers - they’d print anything these days, even mention of the hanging of a two-bit outlaw or the finding of some girl’s body, The Adlers - a fool couple that had, despite all odds, managed to start up a small steading further up the mountain - hadn’t heard anything, but they weren’t much more up to date with things than he was.

  
  


Four months, and he almost shot her.

The door banged open in the middle of a nasty storm, and he saw only an oddly shaped silhouette - thin and lanky and somewhat familiar, but with what he was fairly certain were animal ears atop it, and too tall.

He dropped his carving block and jumped to his feet, drawing his gun and yelling “What you want!” only to nearly have a heart attack when she spread her hands wide and he made out a familiar face, and he started cussing a blue streak at her in English and Spanish both.

She had the good graces to look sheepish.

“Where you been!” he barked, shoving his gun in its holster before he could start waving it around, “It’s been four months _perra!_ You been _una rata?!_ ” and she was quick to shake her head, _‘no, no’_.

  
  


“Worked with a loon,” she spoke up, and that was a surprise. She seldom spoke unless she was made to, “didn’t have time.” and he almost barked that she could have written - his _pequeno asesino_ couldn’t even be bothered to write to tell him she was alive? but then he remembered - he was fairly certain she was illiterate - and felt the fool.

His eyes rose, and took in the fox hood that sat on her head. Oh. Wow. That looked… more appealing than it should have. It fit her, he realized, and though he was still _furious_ he was also trying not to laugh at the sight; he’d always thought her to look feral, like something that belonged in the wilds, and now he could finally put a finger on it, say that she looked _foxish_. The grey-orange fox-pelt that melded into a jacket looked almost natural.

Evan looked down, following his gaze, and grinned sheepishly, shrugging. “She nearly shot me for this.” reaching up to rub at her eyes, and he hackled - this was _su pequeño asesino_ , and they’d dared to lay a finger on her head? It was natural that she’d get hurt in their line of work, but the fact that she’d gotten hurt while not doing work for _him…._

and she must have seen the look on her face, as she spoke up, “a gift,” then, seeing the way his eyebrow rose, “I have… a gift,” her voice was starting to croak in the way it did when she spoke too much, so he nodded, shivering when she vanished back outside (And he wondered what, exactly, it was, considering she was wearing her satchel) before coming back inside, arms behind her back.

And wasn’t that a show of trust? She couldn’t reach for her guns if he tried anything, was completely helpless.

  
  


She grinned at him, and whipped her hands out from behind him, presenting…. _Something_ in her hands, and he could practically hear the _dun-duuun!_

He accepted it, carefully unfolding what he was surprised to find was a coat similar to hers, but made of a wolf’s coat - a very handsome one, thick and lush and amber, and god but it would be so warm he could tell.

Looking at the pride on her face - how could he stay mad?


End file.
